Remind Me
by Parallaxm
Summary: He finds her when he is lost.


** Remind Me**

* * *

_"If I forgot who I am, would you please remind me?_

_Without you, things go hazy." _

* * *

x

_._

_._

"Seventeen years, three months and two days."

He observed as the warbler fed its yowling offspring, wondering why the migratory birds hadn't left yet.

"There are several possibilities," she spoke, following his line of sight. "The female could have bred a tad late; and she now has to care for her young when she should be flying south." Her voice softened. "The odds are stacked against them. It's beginning to snow already, and she hasn't chosen a particularly cozy site to build a nest."

Her eyes scanned the minute details in his expression as he turned to face her. He muttered, "No, three months and five days—three days—which was it...?"

"I'm generally against the notion of taking in creatures of the wild," she responded as she cautiously moved closer to the nest, the white flakes crunching beneath her feet. "But I think we can make an exception."

At that, he shook out of his daze and raised a brow. "We?"

"Well, obviously," she stated matter-of-factly. "They'll likely freeze and starve to death if we don't relocate them to the attic for the winter."

"It seldom snows here," he sputtered, frustrated for some inexplicable reason. "It shouldn't be snowing."

She ran a thumb over the crease between his brows until they evened out, and he stared at her, his entire body deathly still under her light touch.

"It's seventeen years, three months and four days, Hayato."

He started to speak, but she beat him to it. "How do I know for sure? You still have the note tucked away in the bottom drawer of your work table, under the box of fountain pens and wedged into the last page of the otherwise empty photo album."

He remained silent.

She had expected him to be angry with her for knowing, but he sighs instead.  
In that sigh, his life's sorrows seem to congregate in a vaporous swirl that is expelled from his pale lips and into the air around them.

"How did you…?"

"I was looking for a fountain pen, oddly enough." She smiles, and links her arm through his as she guides (or rather, drags) him towards her apartment.  
"My ballpoint pen ran out of ink."

Snorting, he said, "About time; you've used it for too many years. I've had to replace the springs for you three times since the damn thing wouldn't click."

She sniffed, and retracted her arm from his. "I've _informed _you that it was a farewell gift from my violin teacher before I left for college. It has _sentimental value_. You don't seem to grasp the concept."

He looked away. "I understand it well enough."

"Oh, Hayato, I didn't mean—"

She forgot how to speak as he found her hands and warmed them with both of his.

"Don't say anything," he growled, knowing she would be flustered and pink. "You neglected to bring the atrocious gloves your grandmother sent you, though I can't say I blame you."

She smacked him on the arm, which he endeavored not to rub testily afterwards. He settled for an icy glare. "That was unnecessary."

"It was _quite _necessary, and you know it," was her reply. "You've abandoned all pretenses of social grace."

This amused the storm guardian. "Since when have I valued 'social graces'? Your skull must be emptier than I had previously thought."

The woman tore her hands from his, sucking in a breath as they became numb with cold again. "Sure, you liked to think yourself a maverick when we were younger, but you had grown…. G-Gentlemanly," she stuttered, embarrassed at even associating the word with him. "Though it was feckless of me to assume your hauteur had faded."

"Hauteur?" He appraised her with a look of mocking mirth. "Haru, I'm Italian, not French."

"It's an adjective, its etymologic origin is irrelevant," she snapped, her checks reddening. "Anyway, fork over the gloves." At his surprise, she pressed, "Yes, I'm aware that you have them. Why you didn't lend them to me in the first place instead of offering to warm my hands is a mystery."

He kept quiet, and procured two leather gloves from his coat pocket. "They wouldn't fit you," he muttered lamely.

Thanking him, she strode back to the nest several dozen feet back. He followed.

"Don't ruin the gloves," he threatened in a low voice, knowing it was futile as she rolled her eyes.

She gingerly removed the nest from its position in the lower branches of the tree, hoping the birds wouldn't fly away.  
Holding her breath, she returned to his side, carrying four wood warblers in her palm.

They reached her apartment door minutes later, and she glanced at her, nodding at the door. "Well?"

"I don't have the key," he stated flatly.

Haru briefly pondered if she should give the man the spare key.

Just for safekeeping, of course.

She stared at him for a moment longer before he shook his head and knelt down, reaching under her doormat.  
"I expected more from you. Placing your apartment key under your doormat is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard of, not to mention unsafe."

Huffing, the woman shrugged. "Unlike you, I don't have the Mafia constantly on my tail and wishing I were dead. There's no need to complicate things. Besides," she added, smirking. "You have to enter a four digit passcode to open the door, once the key is inserted."

"...'No need to complicate things'?" He quoted skeptically. "The passcode alone would have been sufficient."

"I have things that mean the world to me inside," she murmured in lieu of a proper justification.

"You're going to make me guess, aren't you?"

She grinned blithely, and looked around. "If we don't get inside soon, the warblers might fly away."

He paused, hesitating. Something seemed to cross his mind, but he banished the thought with a twitch in his jaw. After deliberating for a moment longer, he entered the four digits, and the door creaked ajar.

"I would clap, but my hands are full," she addressed him with good cheer as she stepped inside.

"I don't need your patronizing congratulations," he snorted. "Your apartment isn't much warmer than the temperature outside," he noted as he entered behind her.  
It had been less obvious in the spring, but the chill in the air seem to carry over seamlessly from the chill outside, as if the walls were not there at all.

"It takes too much energy to heat it, so I just do things by the fireplace, generally."

Tilting his head to a side, he estimated, "Your entire apartment is equivalent to two rooms in the Vongola base, which is nearly always maintained at sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. It's barely fifty degrees in here."

"Details," she spoke dismissively. "Would you go ahead and open the attic door?"

She noted with a flutter in her stomach that he ascended the wooden stairs specifically avoiding the areas that creaked and wailed.  
Was he actually that familiar with the place? She couldn't recall when he started visiting- it was just something he did, from time to time. It had become normality.

Settling the nest on the windowsill, she opened the window partially, to let in fresh air.

"There." She smiled in satisfaction.

.

.

.

Blowing gently at her peppermint tea, she shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. After observing the surface ripple for a minute longer, she finally set the teacup down on the table with more force than necessary. "What?"

"Why is your passcode the day we met?" he asked slowly.

She thought for a moment. "How do you remember the exact day we first met?"

"Answer the question," he spoke through gritted teeth.

"On January 4th, ten years ago, my mother disappeared."

It was not the answer he had been expecting. In truth, he didn't know what he had been expecting.

"I... see."

"She left nothing behind—just uprooted her life and removed herself from ours. I never knew why, I…"

"All according to the immutable laws of the universe."

Her hazelnut eyes darted across table and sought his. "Pardon?"

He met her gaze levelly, all jade and sea and storm. "People come, people go. At times without any reason provided. But that's what we are—unreasonable beings."

"People stay, too."

Gokudera took a sip out of his mug of coffee. "You can't be too sure."

"Of what?"

"Of their true intentions."

"They wouldn't stay if they were disinclined to," she pointed out.

"There is such a thing called 'obligation'."

"Then go. Leave."

His mug froze halfway to his lips. "Excuse me?"

"You're not obligated to sit here in my apartment and drink coffee."

"I'm not," he agreed. "But I would prefer to finish the drink."

"You can buy another one at the café just down the street."

"Those taste nasty," he remarked distastefully. "It's not the same."

Her lips twitched upwards. "I suppose I should take that as compliment."

He leaned forward, his fingers knit together as though he was praying. "Perhaps I should redefine the term 'stay'. It doesn't imply leaving."

"Nothing lasts forever," she said, and felt distinctly hollow inside as she spoke the words.

"It's not like you to say that," he commented, glancing into the dusty fireplace.

"Would you rather have me cling to romantic notions?" she inquired, wondering where all this was coming from.

"You lied. You haven't used the fireplace since last year, at least."

She blinked. "What?"

"The dust is layered. There are no ashes or signs of use."

"I don't have the time or money to provide a comfortable temperature. If that bothers you, you shouldn't be here."

"Money shouldn't be an issue for you." He ignored the second suggestion of his departure.

"I'd rather not embezzle from my employer, who also happens to be one of my closest friends, thank you very much."

He snorted. "Embezzle—really? That's going a bit far with histrionics, don't you think? All you have to do is ask."

"'Tsuna-san, lend me some money, will you? I'm cold.' Yes, like that will go over very well," she glowered.  
"I don't pity myself enough to burden him. There are colder people without Mafia members to lean on."

"I meant myself," he spoke inaudibly.

But she had heard. Staring at her hands in her lap, she said, "I don't want to owe you more than I already do."

"You don't owe me anything."

She swallowed thickly. "Don't be ridiculous."

He waved a hand in that impatient manner of his. "Then consider all existent debts repaid."

"Why are you doing this?"

He didn't know what to say.

.

.

.

"There was nothing you could do, Hayato."

"Save your breath. I'm not in the mood for your syrupy condolences," he spat.

Bianchi retreated into the infirmary without another word.

The storm guardian leaned against the wall, sliding down as he cradled his head in his arms. _"Christ. It was a bloody fucking massacre." _He cursed the tremors that wracked his limbs and pulse, willing it all to cease.

He stood suddenly, his fists clenched and throbbing. Bits of memory flashed in his head; a flickering nightmare indiscernible from reality.

He had been under the impression that Mafioso were, if nothing else, individuals who played by the rules. 'Noble' was a bit of a stretch, but 'principled' was a must. Wrong. They were sadistic on principle; manifesting tranquil silence into a bloody aftermath gone still. They generally confined themselves to directed combat; but occasionally built camaraderie around setting flame to a village of uninvolved parties.

And they hadn't been able to arrive at the site until it was black soot and charred flesh.

The arsonists had also been kind enough to leave a trail of limbs and entrails in their wake, as some sort of sick signature.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath.

And abruptly collided with Haru.

His eyes flew open at the contact, and he grasped her arms as she untangled herself from him, jerking her forward. Her apartment may have been hellishly frigid, but she was the essence of warmth—her scent (an eclectic medley of tangerines, tea and fresh linen) was warm, her body was warm and _alive; _and he knew her eyes were warm though he couldn't see them.

He breathed in deeply a second time, holding her tightly.

"Hayato," she breathed in a strained voice, and he knew her tears were warm, too, as he felt his shoulder dampen.

They exchanged no dialogue after that—he didn't need to hear it.

He needed this; he needed her.

She would stay.

.

.

x

* * *

**A/N: **It's certainly been a while. Hopefully people haven't lost their patience with CTJC; that is evidently not being continued at this moment (but it is not _discontinued_ either). Wishing you all a lovely holiday season- also wishing for some snow, but it doesn't seem like that'll happen.

Inspiration for this one-shot is derived from the song "Hazy" by Rosi Golan (featuring William Fitzsimmons). I would recommend listening to it.

Thank you for reading. Comments/feedback would be most welcome.

PS. The seventeen years, three months and four days refers to the time that has passed since the death of Gokudera's mother.  
The letter was from his mother, promising to meet him for his birthday the next day (which she died on).


End file.
